


A Minor Allowance

by vriskacircuit



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst and Porn, Canon Era, I am so sorry, M/M, PWP, to anyone who knows me irl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:08:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vriskacircuit/pseuds/vriskacircuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras lets Grantaire have one night.  Grantaire paints an illusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Minor Allowance

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing any kind of sex scene, so I apologize for my terrible not-knowing-anything-about-it-ness, and for how awkward and bad it is. And if you know me IRL, then I apologize for everything in general.
> 
> Thank you to Sonia for reading over it.

He'd only been pretending to be drunk this time. If rejected, he could just laugh it off the next morning, tell him, _I was drunk, Enjolras, did you really believe everything I said? Don't flatter yourself_.

But Enjolras hadn't knocked him away, hadn't brushed him off with an impatient sigh, hadn't reacted with horror to the sensation of another man going just that much farther into his personal space than could be considered reasonable. So Grantaire had gone from testing boundaries to directly telling him, not quite laying the cards on the table, the plain truth masked with a singsong voice to give it just enough of a guise of mockery - but not enough to dismiss him. _oh Apollo dearest, half my existence centers itself around you, did you know that, did you?_ and then asking, not quite sure what for, do you, could you, would you let me, oh Apollo, tell me please -

yes, was Enjolras' reply, cutting off the dancing flurry of questions like jabs from a rapier, and as Grantaire's heart leapt with hope for a moment, trembling on the edge of the implications, he added, but only for one night, and the joy abated a little. It was only one answer, only the most immediate, most basic reply, the simplest solution, when there was still a host of requests and confessions to be made.

But it was something, and Grantaire could think of many a woman, and one or two men, who would leap at the opportunity to have this creature of fire burning through their bedsheets. Enjolras was beautiful and enticing and sculpted out of flowing marble, and Grantaire couldn't deny that maybe he'd been looking for the emotions, for the matters of the heart that were so much more taut and brutal than the poets spoke of, but he wanted this too. Yet it was difficult, as he wordlessly followed Enjolras to the bedroom, to believe that this was really happening, after so much wordless watching and admiring and wishing from the gloomy back of the room.

He's still having trouble believing it now, as he tugs off Enjolras' clothes with a careful slowness that could almost be called reverent, gently dropping them over the side of the bed before settling back on his heels and looking, just looking. Enjolras is reclining against the pillows, perfectly relaxed and inert, steel-blue eyes watching Grantaire to see what he will do.

Right now Grantaire is content to just run his gaze over Enjolras' form, relishing the knowledge that Enjolras is letting him do this, has given himself to him for one night. One night only, but Grantaire intends to make the most of it. Enjolras' body seems made of the same priceless marble as his face, chiseled by a master hand and adorned with one or two scars running along his skin. Not quite a model of breathtaking perfection, yet beautiful enough that, but for the patient rise and fall of the finely sculpted stomach, Grantaire might wonder if he's really looking at a statue of some young god that has fallen onto the bed.

"Are you going to do something?" Enjolras' voice is brusque and loud in the stillness.

"All in good time," says Grantaire, then leans forward and kisses Enjolras on the lips, gently at first, then deeper and hungrier. Enjolras' mouth falls open without protest, and Grantaire takes his time, exploring and memorizing the way Enjolras tastes and feels. He lingers a final moment, then draws away, rests his forehead on Enjolras' in the moment it takes him to regain his breath, and moves away to trail his lips over Enjolras' face, along his jawline, against the corner of his mouth, feather-light over his fluttering eyelids. Then he sits back up.

Enjolras watches him, still motionless save for the rise and fall of breathing. The only difference from before is that his lips are now wet and red.

Grantaire takes Enjolras' hand and brings it to his mouth, tracing his lips over each finger and knuckle and crease in skin. Teeth scraping gently against the inside of his wrist, admiring the fine bones, the curve of the joint, and the pulse point beating into his mouth. Running a hand up the slenderness of the arm, the roundness of the shoulder. Leaning forward and lavishing kisses upon Enjolras' neck and shoulders, mouthing along the swooping line of his collarbone.

Enjolras lets him do all this, tilting his head to the side to give him better access, but Grantaire feels the need to glance at him for permission before moving down his body, sucking and licking at each nipple - which earns him a sharp intake of breath. Part of him is secretly pleased that he's starting to warrant a reaction, but the greater part of him is busy mapping out Enjolras' body, trailing lips and tongue over his gently toned stomach and light touches up the inside of his thigh. His hands follow the path taken by his mouth, feeling the faint protuberance of ribs and hipbones, the rise and fall of breathing.

He gives Enjolras' cock the same attention as the rest of his body - perhaps more, but can he really be blamed? It is a beautiful cock, already half-hard despite its owner's apparent indifference, and Grantaire strokes it lightly with his fingertips before kissing and licking up the underside and taking the head into his mouth. He allows his eyes to slide closed and commits to memory every detail - the slight weight in his mouth, the taste and texture beneath his tongue, the little breathless noises that Enjolras makes when he applies suction. He takes a moment more to savor it - and to swirl his tongue over the tip, which elicits a groan - then pulls back and sits up.

He's pleased to see that Enjolras is panting, pale chest fluttering up and down, his face flushed and his lips parted. Grantaire takes another moment to memorize this sight, to savor what the great leader looks like without his clothes on.

"Are you planning to do anything else, or are you going to just keep doing this all night?" asks Enjolras, managing to keep his voice mostly steady.

Grantaire hesitates before holding up a hand and wiggling his fingers as an answer.

"Ah." In response, Enjolras adjusts his body on the sheets, bringing his knees up and spreading his legs. Rather than allow his mental functions to be shut down by that image, Grantaire dives over the edge of the bed, retrieves his trousers, and rummages through a pocket until he finds the small bottle of olive oil he'd pocketed before leaving the café backroom.

Enjolras raises his eyebrows at that, but says nothing. Grantaire dips a finger into the bottle, brings it out slick and dripping, and positions it between Enjolras' legs. He takes a moment to process the fact that this is what he's dreamed about for months, and now it's happening - then slides it in.

Enjolras inhales sharply - Grantaire can see his stomach tighten - and his eyes are a brilliant blue in his heated face, wide and unfocused. Grantaire is concentrating on the finger that is buried deep inside Enjolras, how it's hot and tight and it may be his imagination, but he thinks he can feel the thrum of a fast-beating pulse. He twists the finger, trying to find a responsive point, and Enjolras moans long and low and soft and says breathlessly, "Another."

Grantaire fumbles in his haste to obey, his ears ringing with the noise of Enjolras' voice sounding so debauched. He slides in a second finger, and this time Enjolras breathes _out_ , a ragged stream of air with the wisp of a moan riding on it. His hands are by now clenched in the bedsheets, white knuckled; he still hasn't directly touched Grantaire.

Grantaire spreads his fingers, slowly and deliberately, feeling the tight stretching heat, and Enjolras cries out. "That way, yes, I - ahh - yes more _please_ -" His voice is hoarse and cracked and heavy with sex, and it shivers down Grantaire's spine and joins the tight heat pooling between his legs.

As he slides in the third finger - and Enjolras makes a noise like a whimper - he catches sight of Enjolras' cock, fully erect and almost straining upward, eager and tantalizing and gorgeous. Compulsively, he leans forward and applies his mouth to it, sucking and licking indiscriminately, and feels the sudden need to be all over Enjolras, to feel him everywhere, to have their two bodies slot together like puzzle pieces -

Enjolras says, "Stop."

The word jolts through Grantaire with unmerciful suddenness, but before he has time to act on it, Enjolras groans and continues, "Drop everything you're - ahhh, doing to me and -" His fingers scrabble at the bedsheets. "I want you - inside of me. Now."

The last word cracks like a whip. Grantaire spares a moment - and a little more olive oil - to make his cock as slick and slippery as possible. His whole body thrums with a desperate wanting, and he repositions himself on the sheets and maneuvers Enjolras' thighs farther apart and then pauses without knowing why.

The moment hangs in the air like a heartbeat.

"Is this all right?" asks Grantaire, because somewhere at the back of his mind he is still having trouble believing it.

Enjolras' chest is heaving, but his voice is unreasonably calm as he replies, "Yes."

Grantaire nods, then slowly, carefully pushes in, and cannot help but let his head fall back at the sensation, because this is more than he hoped for, this is simply _amazing_. The slow delicious friction, the way Enjolras' body tenses and bends around him, and the hot stuttering arousal curling through him draw a long ragged moan from his throat. Enjolras makes a noise that is a little too high-pitched, and Grantaire asks, "Does it hurt?"

The sound that comes of Enjolras' mouth is something like, "Nnngh," and he shakes his head. Then, "Yes, actually, a - a little, but if you dare stop now I will -"

\- and that is all the encouragement Grantaire needs to push in again, hearing himself make steady whimpering noises at how _good_ Enjolras feels, hot and tight around him and bending against his movements -

Enjolras still isn't touching him. He has one hand gripping the bedsheets, the back of the other pressed against his mouth, and he has made no move to actively touch Grantaire all evening.

As Grantaire pushes his hips forward again, slowly, carefully, Enjolras glares up at him with his hair like molten gold against the pillow, and says, "I am not a - delicate flower, you can go faster if you wish. And I - rather do wish it, if you don't mind -"

Grantaire falters for a moment, unsure if he heard correctly. Enjolras gives an impatient sigh, pulls Grantaire downwards by the shoulders, and kisses him forcefully, lips and tongue and teeth meeting and clashing. At the same time his hips roll up against Grantaire in what is probably a clumsy attempt to take him in further - it doesn't quite work, but the movement and friction make Grantaire groan into Enjolras' mouth, and he decides to completely forgo holding back -

and the bed is rocking, and Enjolras is making little sounds in rhythm with Grantaire's body, gasps and whimpers and short moans and fragments of words, and Grantaire's mouth is moving out of control, words spilling over his lips: _you are so beautiful Enjolras you have no idea how long I've waited for this do you know how good this feels the things you do to me I love you I love you_

Enjolras has completely forgone his earlier careful lack of contact. His legs are wrapped around Grantaire's waist, thighs heavy and heated. His hands are everywhere - sliding the length of Grantaire's spine, roughly moving in his hair, grasping his upper arms. He pulls Grantaire down, and strains his head forward enough to press his lips and tongue to his neck. There is licking and sucking, and then a sharp bite and Grantaire thinks, that's going to leave a mark. Fully intending to repay Enjolras in kind, he dips down and kisses along the line of his bared throat, sucking hard enough to bruise. Enjolras' skin is smooth and soft and blossoms eagerly with red to fill the empty canvas, and Grantaire wonders if he is the first one to have come here. The idea that he might be the only person to have seen Enjolras like this, with his skin flushed and his body stretched out on the bed and his face a picture of perfect ecstasy - he gives a small whine and the rhythm of his motions stutters and intensifies. He is buried deep inside now, with Enjolras' arse flush against his hips, and the way Enjolras responds so eagerly to his movements, matching him stroke for stroke, pace for pace, like partners in a dance - he will remember this night forever, thinks Grantaire dazedly, against the pressure building inside of him like bubbling against a cork, he will carry this memory to his grave -

Enjolras comes first. His spine arches like a hunting bow, the entire length of his body straining up into the pressure of Grantaire's torso and his fingers tightening, wound into his hair and scraping at the back of Grantaire's scalp. His head falls back, mouth opening, and a choked-off, slippery cry slides from his lips reddened from kissing - Enjolras with his hair against the pillow like a golden halo, his throat bared and spotted with kisses, and Grantaire buried so deep inside of him he cannot tell where one ends and the other begins and they are so achingly, exquisitely together -

\- and Grantaire is _gone_ , whispering into Enjolras' neck as his entire body shudders and contracts - it might be Enjolras' name and it might be a repeated i _love you_ \- it comes out in choked and heavy sobs, tattooing the damp and heated mantra into his skin, claiming him, as his brain whites out and his body yields.

There is a long moment in which both of them breathe, ragged and halting, in and out in unison. Then Grantaire slides out of Enjolras, numbly soaking in the last scraps of pleasure, and falls down onto Enjolras' chest. He can feel the slowing heartbeat against his jaw, their sweat-slicked skin cooling in the night air. There is a warm slippery mess caught between their bellies, but that can be taken care of later. For now, his body feels limp and heavy; he is tired and spent and deeply, wonderfully sated.

There are tears on his face; he wipes them away hastily.

"I hope I did not prove a disappointment?" he says finally, raising his eyes to look at Enjolras.

A lazy arm is draped over him, and Enjolras replies, "Hardly. I must admit, you rather exceeded my expectations." A smile curls into his voice.

Grantaire nods, shifting position. "Next time -" he begins, and then breaks off, cursing himself. He'd been so wrapped up in Enjolras and his body and his beauty, he'd forgotten that this was only a fleeting illusion -

The warmth of that arm falls away, and there is a tensing underneath him. "There will not be a next time," warns Enjolras.

Grantaire swallows bitter disappointment. "We are linked, all the same," he persists. "I have seen you naked; there are few who can claim as much."

"We are not lovers."

"And yet we have made love."

"We have had sex," corrects Enjolras. "That is not the same thing."

"Only fools and romantics see a difference. You are neither."

There is no answer.

Grantaire sighs. "Besides, if I take that position - for I may be more of a romantic than I admit, and I readily confess that I am a fool - I should say that was closer to making love."

Enjolras' hands find Grantaire's waist. "We are not in love."

"That sounds almost the same as what you said earlier," replies Grantaire, his heart in his throat. "You must be careful, or you will become an approximation of Echo, that poor plaintive nymph."

"Echo pined away for her love." Enjolras' voice is steady, his fingers pressing hard into the small of Grantaire's back. "If one of us were to do the same, it would not be me."

Grantaire stiffens, sucking in a quiet breath, and yet makes no reply. The words cut more than he will admit.

Perhaps Enjolras feels the reaction; his tone softens and his fingers begin rubbing gentle circles. "You love me, then."

Grantaire shudders. "Yes."

"I am sorry -" begins Enjolras.

"Do not be," replies Grantaire, lifting himself up on his elbows. "I am resigned to my fate."

"Your fate," repeats Enjolras.

"To love a statue," replies Grantaire simply.

"I am hardly a statue."

"No, you are," says Grantaire, trailing his lips along Enjolras' collarbone. "You are of a marble that makes sparks when struck. But then I must be Pygmalion - I could not help but pray for some token of returned affection, and behold, you granted me this night." He grins, and feels the sadness on its edges; his eyes meet Enjolras' piercing blue ones. "Thank you."

He allows his head to drop back down onto Enjolras' chest and listens to the rushing of air within his lungs. Twice Enjolras begins to say something, then stops.

Finally he says, "We still have the rest of the night, if you wish."

At the back of Grantaire's mind, fantasies vaguely unspool themselves; lips on his cock, a body pressed against a wall, the imagined sensation of Enjolras burning inside of him. He lets them all slip away in favor of a yawn.

"If for one night we are lovers," he says, "then I simply ask that you hold me that way." The request sounds pathetic, coming from his mouth like that, but he persists. "Let us sleep together in the literal sense."

Enjolras dips his head in acquiescence, then hesitates. His eyes, Grantaire thinks, are so very blue.

"I am sorry," he says again, placing the statement into the air for consideration.

"Sorry? For what? For my own feelings?" Grantaire leans forward, stopping the beginning of Enjolras' reply. The kiss feels more even-footed now; Enjolras' tongue is exploratory and warm, his hands running over Grantaire's shoulders, in his hair; Grantaire cannot tell whether his movements are hungry or merely perfunctory. He breathes deeply into Enjolras' mouth and then, breaks away from the kiss, with their noses still touching, and says slowly, "I am in love with you." He takes his time with the words, tasting them, weighing them against the heaviness of the air. His breath mingles with Enjolras' in a damp warmth. "I am desperately, recklessly, painfully in love with you." He kisses Enjolras again, briefly and gently. "And it changes nothing."

"I -" begins Enjolras.

"Nothing at all," repeats Grantaire, absently overriding him. The words fumble, slipping out of his mouth, and he lays his head back down on Enjolras' shoulder. "I am tired, Apollo. May I spend the night here?" The formality is a ridiculous one, but he is tired and spent and no longer quite cares what comes out of his mouth.

Enjolras hesitates, then nods, pulling Grantaire against him and shifting them both into a more comfortable position. Grantaire listens to the sound of them breathing in tandem, their legs tangled together, and tries very hard to view this for once like the idea of an ordinary night between two people who are in love. There are fingers running through his hair, clumsy and gentle and thick with laziness, and that helps a little. He falls asleep with a heartbeat in his ears.

The next morning the bed is cold and empty beside him, the dried come on his stomach serving as the only confirmation that last night really happened. Grantaire gets dressed and bitterly reproaches himself for having expected anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> As I said, first time writing smut, so feedback is highly appreciated.


End file.
